


The Bitch and The Mutt

by hips_of_steel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Based loosely on Hurr Hurr's Medieval AU, Bloodplay, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9244022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hips_of_steel/pseuds/hips_of_steel
Summary: Once they broke bread together and laughed, brothers who loved each other dearly and never would have done anything to harm the other. Joyous as they ran through the halls of their childhood home.Now they gaze across the table at each other, eyes the same shade of green, yet different as can be. On opposite sides of a civil war, with one giving his loyalty to their younger brother and the other giving his to their sister, they have found themselves stranded together, and at an impasse for how to deal with this situation.Tonight will be a battle, but not a battle fought with blades. It is a battle of wills between these brothers, a battle for information.And neither intends to let the other leave this night without making their mark.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely based upon the Medieval AU art of Hurr Hurr, and specifically inspired by the piece found at this link [http://hurrhurrr.tumblr.com/post/35656993556/the-bitch-and-the-mutt-ouo], which also gave the work its title. Given that I have no idea who they killed off in their AU or how they planned for it to end, we can say it's very, very loosely based.
> 
> Wales (Owen) is the Bitch, and Scotland (Alasdair) is the Mutt. Probably nicknames the enemy troops gave them.
> 
> I really ship Scotland and Wales and want to see them ride happily off into the sunset but I also want complicated feelings and terrible life choices and angry hate sex, and I cannot please all sides of myself at once. So I'm gonna go repent and take a shower where I sob for 6,000 years or so, and then try and write some fluff for them, or at least something that has a happier ending.
> 
> Also, my height headcanon is that Wales is 6'3" and Scot is right at six foot, making them basically giants given the time frame, but what is fact? This is an AU. I could have given them dragons.

It's the silence as they look at each other through the dark, trying to decide how to move forward. The situation is tense, and in truth, they shouldn’t even be up here alone, taunting each other in such an open fashion. But they have no intention of letting their men hear their words, as bitter and open as they may become as the night wears on.

 

It is improper, one may suppose, for them to be up here alone, but there is no such thing as propriety during war.

  
The older man, or as he has been nicknamed, the Bitch, watches with cold eyes, hiding his intentions from sight. He is loyal to the king, his younger half brother, Arthur, despite the fact he once stood in line for the throne. He has learned over the years to hide himself behind a thousand veils, each thicker than the last, until one cannot be sure if one is looking at the real man or one of a dozen masks he bears.

  
The younger one, nicknamed the Mutt, sips at a beer, eyes almost liquid fire as he glares. He has always been the younger brother, never preened for leadership the way the Bitch once was. He has no loyalty to Arthur, instead placing his faith in the oldest child, Siobhan, a rebellious woman who would be queen. He hides nothing. No matter what mood you encounter him, you always can tell that the Mutt hides nothing. His eyes speak the truth, and even now they speak of anger.

  
Once they broke bread together and laughed, brothers who loved each other dearly and never would have done anything to harm the other. Joyous as they ran through the halls of their childhood home, followed behind by their sister who begged them to slow down as she attempted to keep up with them.

  
Now these two brothers simply gaze across the table at each other, eyes the same shade of green, yet as different as can be.

  
There is a phrase the Bitch remembers Arthur using before their last encounter on the battlefield. Hardly an original work, but it rings true even here. It is the silence before the storm, and neither brother has yet decided who will be the one to break it.

  
Another full flagon finds its way to the front of the Mutt, who drains it with a vengeance, still managing to glare around the earthenware. The Bitch wonders if it's a challenge the Mutt is seeking, but refuses to answer it. He knows that he must remain clear headed and calm if he hopes to survive this night, or to claim a victory over his opponent.

  
The Mutt watches his older brother sip at his own flagon, hardly a third through his first dose of the heady brew. The Bitch never used to have such qualms when it came to drinking, but it is hard to know what those eyes hold anymore. Once they had been warm and lively, bringing a smile to the faces of all those around him with his compassion and caring, even as a young boy. He had been destined to be a great king, like those of the legends.

  
Now those once warm eyes mirror those of the man he calls king, cold as glass, every moment calculating, never resting, never joyous. Distant and dark. The eyes of a tyrant.

  
The Mutt wants to see the light dance in those eyes once more, happy and brilliant rather than dull and cold. Siobhan would welcome the Bitch into her court, treat him with open love and affection as a brother returning to the true cause. His crimes would be forgiven simply for the fact that Siobhan knows Arthur cannot fight without his loyal lapdog bending every way to please him, let alone the family ties that bind them to each other.

  
Even if Siobhan captured the Bitch in battle, she would treat him well and, if there was no option but execution, give him the dignity of a quick and easy death. Even with their differences, she would not see her brother suffer.

  
The Mutt knows what his fate would be in the hands of that boy they call Arthur, a man's name for a child hardly befitting of it. He styles himself after the monarchs of old legends, not seeming to understand that there is nothing noble in disinheriting your older siblings and attempting to banish them to far off lands, or in the slaughter of innocent civilians in a town over which a banner proclaiming loyalty to the queen lays.

  
He knows in the hands of the Bitch's master, he would be dragged through the streets, beaten and spit upon, hands trying to tear him to pieces even before he had reached the executioner. There would be no dignity for him, only torture.

  
It would be no quick death, either. The young "king" had a fondness for the art of drawing and quartering. It was said the Bitch stood over his younger brother during these executions, face impassive while the child enjoyed the sight of blood spilling. It was said to be the one time the boy king’s impassive mask slipped, delighting in the bloodshed and misery.

  
But the Bitch never slipped up at these events. His face would always remain impassive over these dead, even men he had grown up with as friends when he had been a child.

  
_Would you even make a single whimper of protest for me?_ The Mutt wonders, taking another swallow of the beer.   
  


They stare across in silence. They have no desire to hurt the other currently, with their present situation. To kill each other would be to surely ensure their own death at the hand of the other’s troops. But this is a battle of wills, and there is still much that could be lost this night.  


This old castle where they have both been driven by the weather is in an area loyal to Queen Siobhan, but while this is the Mutt's home territory, he only has a meager five men compared to the Bitch's twenty. It is a standoff, their troops somewhere below, praying that their masters do not attempt to murder each other, for fear of certain death at the hands of the other’s men or the other’s reinforcements, sure to be somewhere nearby, only a quick ride away for any man that might escape or set a signal fire before falling in battle.  


The Bitch takes another sip from his flagon as the sky rumbles outside. Rain falls softly on the old roof, a soft hush to dampen the distant sound of a thunderclap, as though a mother comforting a child while the father raises a sword to protect his home.  


He sighs softly, remembering his poor mother. A woman who loved two men. One a king long assumed infertile, the other a commander of armies. But when her fourth child was born with hair as pale as that of the true king, rather than a beautiful red like hers or brown like the general, she had watched three children lose their claims and status. A girl destined to be the Queen of France disinherited, a son who would have become Lord of the Highlands nearly sent to be cannon fodder, and her oldest son losing his favor for the youngest.  


And when she lay with the general once more and bore a fourth child of his lineage, she lost her own place at the queen’s throne, and was banished from her own children, save the infant in her arms. The Bitch hopes that Siobhan and the Mutt find the young boy, the brother he has never met, first. He is a mere nine summers, and hardly deserving of an end at the hand of Arthur's executioner. The Bitch wonders if Arthur would grant the young child named Brendan a short and easy death, or if he would draw it out to try and please his crowd.

 

Even Siobhan would grant Arthur a quick death, should she take him in battle. The fall of an axe, and the deed would be done. But the Bitch will not let them take him while he still stands. Arthur is the king he swears his allegiance to, the one he promised to protect to the end of his own life. He will let them part his head from his shoulders before they ever touch Arthur.  


Another flash of light, and a few seconds later, a clap of thunder. The Mutt slams down his flagon with the clap, empty once more.  


Suddenly the Mutt rises to his feet. They left their weapons behind with their men, but the Bitch rises as well, knowing that the Mutt is bolder with one drink in him, let alone four. If he wants to pick a fight, as his eyes seem to show, then the Bitch must be ready to defend himself.  


The Mutt comes over, leaning in close, eyes full of fire gazing at those made of glass. "How long did it take for him to kill the brother I once knew?"  


The Bitch blinks in confusion at the words, but the Mutt does not leave him wondering for long.

  
"Once there was a prince who laughed and smiled. His eyes were warm and kind, and all who looked at him could not help but smile too. His laughter was sweeter than the finest French wines, his smile brighter than the sun. He is dead now, killed by a man who only does as his so called 'king' wills him to do, eyes colder than the snow of the northernmost hills of these very lands, no sound coming from his throat save that of a growl. How long did it take that man to kill the brother I once knew?"   


The Bitch hardens his face as he glares. "And what of the boy who once swore allegiance to that happy brother, knowing that he would never be a king as long as that brother lived, only the lord of the most barren lands? Why was it that when that happy brother lost his kingdom and put his faith in someone else that his younger brother turned against him, spreading poisonous words and supporting a woman who had as much claim to the throne as he did?"  


"More claim to the throne than that boy you call king. A woman raised to be a queen, with sharp teeth and a sharper mind. A woman who never burned down a citadel of her own people to make an example of a few traitors. A woman who earned her place in those northern barrens through hard won bargains and speaking the truth, rather than cutting throats and spreading lies."  


"A woman whose bargains include wild promises for land she has yet to conquer, who claims new oppression as freedom, born of a whore and a drunkard-" The Bitch began, but the Mutt did not allow him to finish that thought.  


"The same _whore_ and _drunkard_ who produced the smiling prince, his younger brother, and of the same _whore_ who produced the boy he now calls _king_ !" The Mutt said, and taking several steps forward, reached for the throat of his older brother.   


The Bitch snarled, grabbing the Mutt by the shirt. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room completely, but it was ignored. The Bitch shoved him hard, and the Mutt landed with his back on the table right as the thunderclap rang out through the abandoned castle. The table was old, and one leg gave way, the noise of its shattering wood lost in the echoes of thunder. The Mutt, already off balance from his drinks, fell to the floor with a muffled curse.  


The Bitch knelt down to try and shake some sense into the Mutt, but the Mutt leapt up, tackling him with blind rage flowing through green eyes, hair as red as his passion for violence. The Bitch barely managed to counter the weight, taking several steps back and feeling his shoulders slam into a wall as the full impact of the Mutt's weight finally hit his body.  


But the Mutt could move him no further, and they both knew it. There was a soft moment of silence, save for panting breaths and angry glares.  


Then the Bitch saw a thin line of blood on the Mutt's lips. He must have bit them when he fell, an old habit from his childhood. A sudden urge came over him, and he wanted to see more of that red liquid spilling from the Mutt. Not enough to kill him. Just enough to satisfy the Bitch's taste.  


The Mutt saw something flicker in the Bitch's eyes, something that he had never seen before, or at least not in many, _many_ , years. The Bitch had always been taller than the Mutt by a good three inches, although both were tall men compared to their countrymen. The Mutt felt a faint flicker of fear course through him, and something told him to run.   


Before his beer addled mind could process a response to the danger it could not name, the Bitch was slamming him down to the floor, and as another thunderclap filled the room, he yelped, his shoulders hitting the ground hard with the full entirety of the Bitch's weight on top of him.

Hands pinned above him, he closed his eyes, bracing for the impact of the inevitable blow that would be delivered to him, vulnerable as he was in this moment.

  
Instead, something warm pressed to his lips. Eyes opened wide in shock as he realized that the Bitch was pressing their lips together, and even more shocked when the Bitch's tongue suddenly darted over the torn and bleeding skin on his lips, lapping up the blood like a pup. It stung, and that small pain made the Mutt find control over his body once more.   


The Mutt snarled, refusing to be pinned. He tried to rise, but the Bitch held his upper body firm.

  
So he yanked his knee up. There was a sound of surprise and a small yelp of pain, and the Mutt used the imbalance in weight to roll the Bitch over.   


Something told the Mutt that he should throw a punch and tear out the Bitch's throat now that he was vulnerable. An older and more ancient part of his brain told him he should run while he had the chance. A third part told him to hold still and challenge the Bitch to truly try and dominate him in the field of an honorable battle rather than this.

  
But it was that sudden flash across those cold eyes once more, but not something of a lustful nature now. Almost something fond and loving colored those green eyes for a moment, before they became cold once more.   


And in that moment, a fourth part of his brain crafted another response.

 

The Mutt pressed their lips back together, fighting for dominance and rising to the challenge the Bitch had set in front of him.  


The Bitch almost chuckled as the challenge was accepted, bringing their teeth clashing together. They whispered half muttered curses and snarls, claiming the other's mouth as their own, muscles tensed and ready to spring at any sign of weakness from the other, eyes opening and closing, anger spelled out in every fiber of their very beings.  


Whomever had once lived in this castle must have used this as a private dining room or study in which they could enjoy the company of a mistress, for the Bitch could see a bed close by. He yanked the Mutt to his feet, and half threw him towards it, springing forward and pinning the man against it.  


The Mutt didn't go down without a fight, however, hands reaching up and grabbing dark brown locks and yanking them back, exposing a soft and vulnerable throat. He placed his teeth there, snarling as he bit down, and enjoy the Bitch's yelp of pain mixed with something closer to desire. He pulled back and grinned at the mark he had left, tiny drops of blood forming where his teeth had been, barely breaking the skin, but enough to leave scabs in the morning.  


The Bitch had almost frozen as he reached up and touched the now tender and bleeding skin, eyes suddenly turning dark as he realized what the Mutt had done. "My men will see that." He growled, eyes revealing annoyance. Yet another mask.  


"Let them see it. It marks you as what you really are. A bitch willing to bend over to any dog in rut." The Mutt said with an amused expression, knowing the reaction that would get from the man.  


A loud snarl escaped the Bitch, and he lunged forward, pinning the Mutt down once more. "I bend over for no one!"  


"Prove it!" The Mutt challenged, feeling drunk off of both the beer and the sheer amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins as he came to the conclusion that he could not predict what was about to happen, but whatever was coming wasn't something he wanted to stop.  


A hand reached down and torn at his shirt, buttons scattering as his right shoulder was exposed. The Bitch bared a spot of skin near the collarbone and bit down, hard, marking him the same way he had just been marked.  


Another thunderclap covered the shout the Mutt produced as he felt those teeth draw blood. Moments later, he felt the Bitch begin to lap it up.  


Something deep inside the pit of his stomach began to heat as he felt some of the fight leave his body. Half on this dusty bed with the Bitch half on top of him, he wanted to remain here with this comfortable weight and allow the Bitch to see through whatever he had planned.  


It was when he heard the Bitch swear about not having any goddamn oil within easy reach while his hands slid down his body that the Mutt remembered to fight back. He could not let himself be taken so easily. After all, if the Bitch was the pride of Arthur’s armies, he was the pride of Siobhan’s.  


He lunged forward, but the Bitch seemed to have expected this, pressing his entire body into the Mutt, and the Mutt felt something hard press into his crotch, something that he knew was more than a badly placed leg.  


He hated himself for the breathy whine that escaped him as the Bitch crouched over him, green eyes dark with lust.  


"Surrender to me already, Mutt. You never could win against me without Siobhan's help, and she's far from here." The Bitch said with a grin in his voice, almost purring as he knew he currently controlled the situation, and therefore would continue to control it.  


The Mutt opened his eyes, feeling the fire that he knew must be burning in them. "Perhaps I'm different than the boy you used to know." He snarled, still not ready to admit defeat.  


The Bitch chuckled, and said the next words without any thought. "I doubt it. That one was the real lapdog. Never straying from from the shadows of his siblings. If anyone should be called a bitch, it was him."  


The Mutt didn't even realize his hand was moving until it connected with the side of the Bitch's face. Desire was suddenly replaced with another urge, one to scream. Whatever had been said had just left the territory of banter and insults far behind, although they had probably already crossed that line long ago. This had cut deep into the Mutt’s already wounded pride.  


But the look of pure shock on the Bitch's face stopped him from calling for his men. In a moment he saw something he doubted he would ever see again.  


Surprise, shock, and a flash of childhood innocence. They had once played in a royal garden, trading clever sayings and fighting over them, but never had it been like this before. The Bitch looked down at him and shame filled his face as he realized what invisible line he had crossed.  


Exhaustion filled the Mutt, who glanced away, not wanting to gaze any longer at the real man beneath the masks of the Bitch, one who was broken and hurting, who wanted nothing more than to find a peaceful compromise where he could have his family a united whole once more. In mere seconds, he had seen enough of that broken and hurt man to last him a lifetime.  


The Bitch almost collapsed on top of him then. The mask really was gone, both of them tired and wondering what had possessed them to do what they had just done.  


The Mutt moved the wrong way as he tried to pull out from under the Bitch, something on the left side of his chest bothering him when a badly placed limb was set there. But before he could move any further, a soft voice spoke.  


"Please... let me."  


That voice, even though it came from one of his worst enemies, had the Mutt at an almost instant ease. His shirt was slowly pulled back, revealing a mass of scar tissue and gnarled skin and muscle. A wound he had received a year ago from a traitorous arrow.  


There was a long sigh. "I tried to stop that archer."  


The Mutt glanced at the Bitch. "Huh?"  


"You were coming forward to offer the terms to end that battle. A battle that had been fairly won. The only reason you lost was that treacherous archer having to force Siobhan into a hasty retreat in order to save your life. I told him to stand down, but he fired anyhow."  


There was a long breath, and then the Bitch continued.  


"Later I learned he was acting on Arthur's orders. Arthur wanted you dead. He thought you were..."  


"Until a month ago, when I lead an expedition party into territory he held." The Mutt muttered, realizing exactly why the Bitch had come north with twenty men, although he had already had his suspicions when he realized the Bitch was visiting his old haunts. "He sent you to confirm my survival."  


A nod from the older brother. "Yes. How I wish I could deny it, but you are stubborn, brother. Was there was no way we could have avoided meeting each other face to face, but left signs?"  


"And what reason have you given me these past few years to trust you? To trust you would keep my survival a quiet matter between us?" The Mutt sighed. "To expect my survival would be welcome news for the second in command of the man who ordered my death?"  


A nod from the Bitch. "I suppose that is fair."  


Silence filled the room, and then the Mutt spoke.  


"She would still welcome you with open arms, brother. She still loves you, and would accept your men and give you a place among our ranks."  


"But when all's said and done, you will still cut down a child who is your king?"   


The silence was answer enough. The Mutt had had no king since the man they had once thought their father had died.

 

The Bitch rose, intending to return to the table where his spilled flagon now lay in a shattered mess, or perhaps his men. Maybe they would ride out tonight and return to the territory Arthur held. He had his answer. There was no reason to remain.  


Except a wrist caught his, slowly pulling him back towards the bed. He glanced down at the Mutt, whose gaze had lost some of its fire.  


"Please... don't leave me alone. Not like this." There was almost a childlike nature to the request, and those eyes seemed to confirm that.  


The Bitch lay back down on the bed, gazing into those green eyes that had once trusted him so deeply, many years ago. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the Mutt's, eyes asking a simple question.

  
A nod was permission enough. The Mutt offered no resistance this time as the Bitch pressed their lips together, claiming a small amount of dominance over the other.   


Slowly, the Mutt sat up, pressing his half bared chest to that of the Bitch, and shrugging his shirt off of his body completely. The Bitch pulled back, gazing at the network of loud and startling scars across his younger brother's body, horrifying, yet a beautiful testament to his commitment to survival. Red hair covered his entire body, the faint shadow of a beard coming in after several days of hard riding, well acclimated to the northern climes of Siobhan's stronghold and his own lordship. A hand slid up his chest, and the Bitch slowly unbuttoned his shirt as well, .  


He was cleaner than the Mutt, with slightly less hair, a network of fine scars, almost like those made by fingernails rather than blades, except for a single scar over his rib cage, loud and angry compared to the others.  


The Mutt sighed. "I tried to stop that one as well."  


The Bitch said nothing, but set his hand back over the knotted flesh now protecting his brother's heart. "We’ve left enough marks on each other.”  


Their mouths meet again, and the heat that had all but disappeared from their bodies came roaring back with a vengeance after a few minutes of calloused hands running down the Bitch's back and over the Mutt's sides and front, fingertips tracing lightly over every available inch of skin they could find. It was as if they were worshipping their idols, carving them from cold white marble with gentle fingertips rather than chisels.  


The Mutt felt himself keen as another flash of lightning illuminated the room, closer than before, for the Bitch suddenly pressed his hips firm to the Mutt's, and the thunder swallowed the Mutt's moan before the Bitch did, placing his mouth back over to silence him.  


Rolling hips together, they opened their eyes to gaze at the other.  


The Mutt was an open book to the Bitch. He was eager, wanting, and for once, submissive, but his eyes also held a curiosity the Bitch had seldom seen in the younger man's eyes. He knew from the few rumors he had heard that the Mutt never let himself be dominated in a bedroom, let alone on a battlefield. So to see this side of him was truly magnificent.  


Meanwhile, the Mutt saw something else in the Bitch's eyes. A protective desire, once that wanted to wrap the younger man up into his arms and flee until both were far from danger and the war that had torn them from each other. A desire to live life free of conflict, one where an encounter like this could happen again, and without the circumstances being as they were.   


But they had to live in the now, the moment they were currently in. And as the heat between their two bodies increased, the Mutt sent a hand to slide in between their bodies, fiddling with the Bitch's breeches.  


The Bitch groaned, placing light kisses down the Mutt's neck and rolling into the welcome touch. He nibbled around the edges of the Mutt's throat, leaving light marks that would fade by morning. He reached over towards his shirt, where he had tucked something earlier. It would work as a substitute for the substance he preferred.  


The Mutt noticed his reaching hand and grew tense as if expecting a blade, but when he saw the cooking oil in the faint candlelight, he relaxed once more, returning to his careful ministrations, until the Bitch pulled his hand away with a soft groan.  


They looked at each other, panting and hard, and then the Bitch moved down the bed, untying the Mutt's breeches and yanking them down with a soft yelp coming from the man above him.

  
The Mutt was about to protest this rough treatment when he felt a puff of hot breath ghost of the tip of his cock, and moments later, that traitorous tongue moved over it.   


As the rain grew heavier and louder outside, he thanked the gods for the small mercies of their oblivious troops. He tried to hold his teeth together to keep from making another sound, but as those soft lips surrounded him, it was impossible.  


The Bitch felt the Mutt attempt to move his hips, but swiftly moved his body weight to pin the man down with his own weight. A protesting noise escaped the Mutt, a soft whine, but another yelp came instead when the Bitch gave him a hard suck. Hands rushed down, burying themselves in brown locks, trying to force the Bitch to move faster, but he held firm, setting his own pace rather than allowing the Mutt to set one.  


Freeing one hand from the task of pinning the other man down, he reached for the oil, opening the bottle and dipping a few fingers into the substance. Languidly rolling his tongue over the other, he reached down and slowly began to slide one finger into him.  


The Mutt stiffened and started to protest right as the Bitch slid it in. Muffled curses came flying down, and his hips jerked up suddenly, but the Bitch kept him pinned, enjoying the soft keening cry that escaped the man as he curled his finger inside him.  


He pulled off the Mutt briefly, chuckling as he watched the Mutt attempting to hide his face with hand and murmuring prayers to the gods. "Relax."  


Green eyes flashed with anger, hands pulling back to reveal eyes that were almost furious. "How can I when-" He yelped as another oiled finger slid into him, a breathless cry escaping. The Bitch grinned at his victory, and returned his mouth to its prior ministrations. As he felt the Mutt trying to move his hips even harder than he had before, he began to move his fingers, trying to find a spot that would have the Mutt over the edge shortly enough. He felt one of the hands buried in his hair move, and glanced up to see the Mutt was now biting his arm to avoid crying out.  


He pulled his mouth away in an instant, annoyed. "Let me hear your cries."  


The Mutt glared. "Our men are below."  


The Bitch chuckled. "Let them interrupt us. Let them try." He murmured, continually moving his fingers inside the man beneath him. He was confident any who interrupted would regret it, and despite the dangers it would pose if Arthur found out, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the young king right now.  


Suddenly another cry escaped from the Mutt as the Bitch brushed a fingertip over a new place, a loud yelp that would have echoed if not for another thunderclap overshadowing it. He tried to press himself back towards those fingers, but the Bitch pulled his fingers back, leaving the Mutt whining.  


The Mutt knows this game. He has played it before, but never from this side. He has always been the one controlling the whimpers and whines of his partner, waiting for the inevitable surrender, the begging that comes with time.  


A third finger slides in, and now they move in and out in a steady rhythm, avoiding brushing against that spot. The Mutt whines, breathless as green eyes gaze down at him, waiting for him to surrender.  


He tries to sit up, to bring his hips back together with the Bitch's, but a firm hand on his chest keeps him from doing so. He feels himself needing the contact he is being denied, and even with the Bitch as ready as he is, he realizes that the Bitch is better at playing this game than he is.

 

 _How many times have you played this game, brother? And was it ever from my perspective?_   
  


Another moan, fingers dragging themselves in and out of him. He needs the contact, and the Bitch knows it, but he's not the type of man to ask if the Mutt is ready to beg.  


He's the type to wait for the Mutt to break.  


And suddenly, those fingers push in and brush that spot, and with a wordless cry, he breaks, arms going up and reaching for the Bitch, a pleading tone creeping into his voice.  


"Please!"  


That single word is all it takes for the Bitch to surround him with his mouth once more, and this time he doesn't hold the Mutt back when he thrusts his hips forward and uses his hands to shove the Bitch’s head down. Angling his fingers, the Bitch almost slams them into that spot that will have the Mutt seeing stars.

  
There's a loud cry as another thunderclap echoes, and the Mutt comes undone, his body almost going limp as that wonderful rushing feeling overrides everything else, hands falling limply from the Bitch's hair as he sits up.   


The Mutt doesn't miss the Bitch throwing his head back in victory and swallowing with a smirk as thin traces of saliva mixed with semen drip from his mouth, until one drop even runs across the bruised bite the Mutt left earlier.  


The Bitch looks down at the Mutt, a panting mess, and reaches for more oil, removing his fingers and wiping them on the bed. The Mutt whines at the loss as the Bitch stands up and turns away from the bed, but then those breeches fall away, leaving the Bitch as exposed as the Mutt. The Mutt gazes at his back, crisscrossed with the same small scars as his front, save these making a more steady downwards pattern, like nails having been dragged downwards as the Bitch thrusted into his newest conquest so many times that they left permanent reminders.

  
The Bitch sits and turns his head, fluffy brown hair a mess as he gazes at the Mutt, who sits up and presses his front to his back, chin tilted over his shoulder. He doesn't glance down at his lap, content to rest for the time the Bitch allows him. He places a kiss on the Bitch's jaw, tasting himself faintly in the drying saliva.   


There is silence for several moments, and then green eyes meet once more. The movement is slow as the Bitch presses their lips together again, and the Mutt allows himself to be shoved back, hands reaching up and wrapping around the Bitch's back to pull that warm body closer to his own.  


Hands reach for oil once more, and the Mutt sees the Bitch reach for himself, but he raises a hand to stop. The Bitch seems confused, until he sees the Mutt trying to reach the oil.  


He offers it, and the Mutt dips his hand into the liquid, lifting it and then firmly wrapping his hand around the Bitch's shaft.  


A suddenly flash of understanding, and then an oiled hand wraps around the Mutt, slowly attempting to coax a response out of his flushed body. The Mutt then feels the Bitch lifting him slightly, and sees that the Bitch has brought his own knees under him, slowly pulling them into a kneeling stance.  


Wrapping arms around his shoulders, the Mutt lifts himself into the Bitch's lap. Distantly, he is aware that the rain is pouring down hard now, rattling the roof of the old castle with a constant thrum. The Bitch's other hand slips under the Mutt, and oiled fingers press themselves in once more.  


A whimpering cry escapes the Mutt again, hands curled around the other and moving in just the right way to bring out a response from them.  


As the Mutt feels his body come to life once more, the Bitch suddenly removes his hand from him, and uses it to raise the Mutt up higher.  


Green eyes met again, and the Mutt gives a soft whimper as the Bitch slowly lowers him until there is something else, ready to take from him what the Mutt would have willingly given him years ago if not for this war.  


Hands wrapped into thick brown hair, he is confused as to why they are waiting as the Bitch holds him ready for several moments, silent and gazing up at him as if he is a work of art rather than a mortal man.  


Then the lightening flashes, and dawning realization came across the Mutt's face as the Bitch pushes him down.  


The loud cry is lost to the echoes of thunder, and then to the Bitch's mouth as he swallows the soft protests.  


The Mutt has never felt so full, almost painfully so, but the Bitch seems content to wait for him to make the first move, content to give him soft kisses and run hands up and down his back, calming the almost fearful nature the Mutt's heavy breath has taken.   


Silence falls between them as the red headed brother meets the eyes of his older brother. He reaches a hand up, running it over that strong jaw, clean shaven and unscarred. He leans forward and places a kiss on that jaw, lifting himself slightly.  


The Bitch takes the invitation, arms and legs moving so that instead of the Mutt sitting in his lap, he is pinned firmly beneath him with his back comfortably on the bed. Slowly, he pulls back, and then pushes back in.  


They are almost silent as the Bitch sets a slow pace, allowing the Mutt to become accustomed to his presence inside him, and waiting to be invited any further.  


Finally, a small whine escapes the younger man, and then, so softly the Bitch almost wonders if he had imagined it, there is a soft 'please'.  


He indulges that wish, whether imagined or not, thrusting harder and trying to find that spot once more. Grunts filled the room, and suddenly, with a shallow thrust, he hears a soft cry.  


He presses his lips back to the Mutt's, swallowing that cry as he strikes that spot over and over again. The Mutt pulls back, almost keening in pleasure once more.  


The Bitch feels himself nearing the end as suddenly the Mutt moves his legs and everything becomes tighter. The Mutt's eyes are wild with ecstasy, and the Bitch knows they are both close.

  
He suddenly thrusts hard, and lightning flashes overhead, but there is no pause between the lightning and the thunderclap as the Mutt comes undone once more with a loud scream.   


"OWEN!"  


And as the thunder runs through the halls of the castle, the Bitch suddenly feels himself released, and as the Mutt's back arches in pleasure, the Bitch is not far behind, with a loud cry of the other's name. His true name.  


_"Alasdair!"_   
  


The echoes of thunder drown out their cries, but as Owen gazes at his younger brother, so easy to read in the faint candlelight, he wants this night to never end. He wants to ride away with the dawn and join the rebellion, to warm Alasdair's bed at night, and be his constant companion. He wants to hear the Mutt call his name in that manner every night, and perhaps let himself be taken by him.  


And when Alasdair gazes back at his older brother, he can see the silent wanting. He wraps his arms around the man, pulling him close and breathing in his scent, memorizing the feeling of his flesh inside him. He wishes the Bitch did not cling so hard to old loyalties. If he would join them, this war would be won, Arthur taken from the throne, and Siobhan's standards raised over the capital rather than that of the boy king's.  


Owen finally pulls himself from Alasdair, wrapping arms around the younger man. "Please... let me stay here tonight." Owen asks, holding him close.  


The redhead mumbles tiredly, "You only needed to ask."  


They yank the covers back, curling together underneath them as the rain slowly begins to fade away.  


Alasdair falls asleep first, as vulnerable and trusting now as he had been as a child. Owen sighs, running his thumb over that bearded jaw.  


_"Why did you order his death in such a dishonorable manner?"_   
  


_"When did you learn to question me? You must learn your place is at my side, Owen. You belong to me." Arthur had snarled, cold green eyes glaring. "That mutt is a traitor. The fields of our people will be watered with the blood of traitors."_   
  


He had been sent north to confirm the Mutt's survival, and told to kill him if he found him and felt himself able too.  


But he instead found himself in this situation, Alasdair curled into him, snoring softly, almost losing all traces of the hard life he lived in the innocence of sleep.  


Owen finally settles down, closing his eyes and falling asleep as the last rumbles of thunder fade into the distance.

 

***

  
Owen awoke with the morning sun, eyes taking in the sleeping figure of his brother next to him.

  
Alasdair was still deep in sleep, likely an unfortunate consequence of the four flagons of beer. Owen shook his head as he stood and fetched his shirt and breeches, redressing in the early dawn light.   


There was a soft snort from the bed behind him, and he turned, but Alasdair simply rolled over, settling into the spot Owen had previously been sleeping in.  


An old mirror, half shattered and hanging on the wall showed the mark that Alasdair had left on his neck, still present in the morning light. He groaned as he glanced around for anything to hide it with.  


He saw an old curtain, and tore a section, wrapping it around himself like a shawl or cloak. He paused as Alasdair shifted once more, glancing back at the man.

 

Despite his attempts to look like a peaceful sleeper, he was clearly awake now. He had always pretended to remain asleep when he was younger, not wanting to leave his brother’s bed when their mother had come looking for her younger son. Owen paused for a moment before making a decision.  


He walked back over to the bed and sat down, stroking red hair for a few moments and then leaning down. He spoke softly into the other's ear, and when he pulled back, green eyes gazed up at him, nodding to say he had understood.  


Owen stood up and left the room in silence, only stopping briefly to pick something up from the floor, a small disk of metal with a salmon imprinted on it. The sigil of Siobhan’s most trusted men.

 

Proof of Alasdair’s survival for Arthur. He tucked it into a pocket, keeping it out of sight.  


The soldiers rose upon seeing him emerge. All of his men rose to their feet and turned to leave, but the troops from the highlands blocked the exit.  


Owen spoke to both the troops loyal to his brother and his own. "We have the information we sought for our king. The Mutt is alive. We will return to our own territory now."  


The highlander troops stopped them from moving forward. "Not until we know our commander still lives."  


One man started up the stairs, but suddenly there was a shout in Alasdair's distinctive voice. While Owen understood the words, his men didn't. Luckily, it was not his men that Alasdair needed to speak too.  


_"Leig e air falbh e."_ Alasdair called down, much to the surprise of his five men. The one on the stairs even began to protest.   


_"Ach mo lord-"_   
  


_"Leig a 'ghalla a' dol."_ Alasdair said, suddenly appearing at the top of the steps, completely dressed save for his almost ruined shirt, which showed the massive scar tissue over his heart, which did not go unnoticed by Owen’s men. _"Tha e fianais gu leòr ann airson a Rìgh."_   
  


Finally, the troops moved to the side and let them pass, although they followed close behind Owen's men as they walked towards their horses. Alasdair came down and stood in the doorway, watching his brother mount his horse as his men milled about with unease, as if to make sure that these intruders truly left.  


Owen stopped, and then spoke in the soldiers native tongue to his brother, loud enough for Alasdair’s troops to all hear what he had to say.  


_"Tapadh leibh airson a bhith a 'roinn am blàths do leabaidh, Mutt."_   
  


The highlander men bristled at his words, but Alasdair, rather than taking offense, snorted, giving his own reply.  


_"Agus tapadh leat airson a bhith a 'roinneadh ur fiosrachadh, 'ghalla. Now Fuck dheth."_   
  


Owen nodded, and then shouted to his confused men. "Ride. We return to our King."  


As Owen led his men from the castle, the highland troops turned towards their commander. "Should we pursue them? Call for aide? Chase after them?"  


Alasdair shook his head. "No. Let them go. We have something else we must do."  


Alasdair's second in command growled. "You would have us let a man who insults you in such a manner and who ranks so high among our enemies escape?!"  


"Yes, because we have a more important thing to do."  


"What could be more important than taking the Bitch captive?!"  


Alasdair glared at his second in command. "Finding my youngest brother. The Bitch told me where Prince Brendan is, and if the Bitch knows, so does his king, or he will soon enough. And the young prince is not alone."  


The men fell silent as Alasdair headed for his horse, setting a hand on its nose. "He travels with my father, the former General Drustan. If we can find the boy and Drustan, then we may be able to win the war. I am sure Siobhan would prioritize finding Drustan and Brendan before Arthur does over taking the Bitch hostage, especially when we may have very little time in which to accomplish that goal."  


The men finally gave up on convincing Alasdair otherwise and gathered what they had brought, preparing to depart. Alasdair sighed as he watched, knowing that this little event would be brought to Siobhan’s attention after Prince Brendan had been secured. He glanced towards the gates, where Owen had ridden off only minutes ago. He touched his busted lip, and then the mark on his collarbone, feeling the ache in his back and his hips.  


_Sometimes, brother, I wish we had not been born as royal men, but rather common ones. Only then could I love you and you love me the way we wish too._   
  


Alasdair finally mounted his horse, and he knew his men noticed the wince he gave. They saw everything, from busted lip to torn buttons, bite marks and scratches, bruises and wincing.  


But a quick glare silenced their objections for the moment. Alasdair knew Owen would not have given him that information willingly had he simply asked for it, even if Owen hoped they found the boy before Arthur. Owen may have won the battle in the sheets, but Alasdair would reap the rewards in the battle of information from his queen.

 

Alasdair sighed, glancing towards the south once more.  


_Until we meet again, dear brother. Until we meet again._   
  


***

  
The next time they saw each other, Drustan and Brendan stood at Siobhan's side, and Alasdair gazed across the field to where Arthur and Owen stood.   


He raised a sword and gave an order to his men, one Owen could not hear, and across the way, Owen raised his own blade in response, silent as he waited for permission from his king.   


Owen remembered what Arthur had said after the last time they had met their brother on a battlefield.  


_The fields of our people will be watered with the blood of traitors._   
  


He wondered who would be the traitor at the end of the day. Would it be the family on the other side of the battlefield who fell? Or would it be him and Arthur on their knees, asking for the mercy of a quick end? His loyalties, which he once thought had no doubts, had been faltering since Alasdair had been shot, and now after the encounter in the castle, they were in full revolt.  


He glanced back at the king he had sworn to protect, and Arthur nodded, telling him to take the lead. In that moment, he looked into the boy king’s eyes and saw nothing good resting in those green orbs. He realized that after they slaughtered everyone he had ever loved, it would only be a few short years before he met the same fate. Years of misery, awaiting his inevitable end.

 

He made his decision. He knew where his loyalties lay, despite the empty words he had spoken to this king. He had made an oath that he would not break, but he knew where his heart truly belonged.

 

He could see the trap they were preparing to spring, likely arranged by Drustan. If he charged them directly, Arthur’s army would be dealt with easily by Siobhan’s. If he split his army, they would win the day, and Siobhan would be no more.

 

But that was not the outcome he wished for.  


_No matter what, blood will be spilled. The fields will run red with it._   
  


_May the blood be mine, Alasdair._   
  


_May you be the survivor._   
  


"CHARGE!" He screamed, rushing forward with his men to meet the army of Siobhan without splitting the men. He would not turn them against Arthur, but he could lead them straight into the trap that awaited them. Arthur, having not studied strategy under Drustan, would not realize what Owen was doing until it was too late.  


This would be the last time Alasdair saw him alive, Owen was sure.  


He had no intention of being the survivor of this battle. His death would throw the army into chaos. Arthur would have no one else to turn to to save him.  


_Goodbye, Alasdair._   
  


_I love you._   
  


_May my death bring you and your people peace._

**Author's Note:**

> All translations of the Scots Gaelic used come from Google Translate, so please forgive any horrendous errors.
> 
> Translations (Scots Gaelic)
> 
> "Leig e air falbh e." -"Let him go."
> 
> "Ach mo lord-" -"But my lord-"
> 
> "Leig a 'ghalla a' dol." - "Let the Bitch go."
> 
> "Tha e fianais gu leòr ann airson a Rìgh." -"He has enough evidence for his King."
> 
> "Tapadh leibh airson a bhith a 'roinn am blàths do leabaidh, Mutt." -"Thank you for sharing the warmth of your bed, Mutt."
> 
> "Agus tapadh leat airson a bhith a 'roinneadh ur fiosrachadh, 'ghalla. Now Fuck dheth." -"And thank you for sharing your information, Bitch. Now fuck off."


End file.
